Inspirations
by marinoa
Summary: The most important quality in a doctor is patience. This is what Arthur realises when he one day finds a new patient in his little clinic. FrUK AU, oneshot.


_Author's note:_ I wanted to write a short, plotless little fic. The idea is _old_, I just haven't given it a written form until now. Consider this a oneshot that may or may not be continued. So, enjoy!

**Inspirations**

Arthur Kirkland had not become a doctor of a specific need to help people.

Arthur didn't even possess any kind of a special care towards his patients, at least not in a particularly emotional way. No; he had become a doctor of the sheer will to defeat illness, viruses, weaknesses of a human body. He wanted to prove that illness didn't need to rule anyone's body or mind; that a broken bone was not a barrier, merely a temporary slow-down; that cancer was not an excuse to stop fighting, to give up on living. He wanted to prove that people were stronger than that.

Not that there were particularly many interesting cases in the small English countryside village where Arthur had his little clinic, though. A pity, in a way, because Arthur's full potential was somewhat lost on simple cases of mere flu, yet so far the Englishman was content nonetheless. He was young, only twenty-three; and had run his clinic for several months only. There would be chances for him in the future, would he ever desire something greater than that.

So far, living in a small town wasn't that bad a thing, quite on the contrary in fact. No loud traffic, not too many people, and beautiful nature around. On the other hand, there were too many people in the town who know a bit too much about everybody else's private life, and loved nothing so dearly as sharing their knowledge with somebody else.

"Seriously," Arthur retorted to his assistant, a silver-haired German. "That granny had nothing wrong with her. I swear she came here just to tell me how her neighbour had spied _her_ neighbour's daughter making out with some guy the other day."

His assistant, a silver-haired and red-eyed man (who's roots stemmed from old Prussian bloodline, or so he claimed, and thus insisted on being called a Prussian), didn't look up from the comics he was reading. "Don't complain," he uttered nonchalantly. "You get paid for it. Some people have to actually _work_ to earn their living."

"Certainly _you_ aren't one of them," Arthur uttered dryly, eyeing the Prussian's readings that some people might not consider quite appropriate for a village doctor assistant.

"Oh look, it's almost lunch time!" the Prussian exclaimed, paying no attention to his boss and friend. "I'm off."

Arthur sighed, noting his own empty stomach. "_Almost_," he emphasised. "We have still time to take one more patient in."

"Why, mister doctor, I'm sure you can handle one patient even without my assisting awesomeness."

"Bastard."

"And an awesome at that... Hey, don't you dare rolling your eyes at me!"

"Just _go_ if you are to go, I'm calling the next one in."

Gilbert quickly hopped up from his seat. "If it's that old hag who's convinced she has malaria, tell her I'm out of town."

Arthur smirked. "How cruel. You do know she believes to have malaria just to come and see you. I'll offer her a cup of tea while waiting for you."

Shuddering, the Prussian sneaked out from the side door, and Arthur walked to the door of his office to let one more patient in. he was terribly hungry himself, but unfortunately his consciousness prevented him from taking his break any earlier than it truly was. "Next, please."

"That would be me," a musical voice almost sang in response. A tall man with blond, wavy hair, rose from his chair and aimed a charming smile at the Englishman. _Not locals_, Arthur instantly marked, hearing the foreign accent in his patient's voice.

"This way, please." he held the door open for the patient.

"_Merci_," the man purred, and as he passed the young doctor, Arthur could smell a faint scent of lilies. _French_, he concluded, closing the door and walking to his desk. _Bloody_ _marvellous._

The Frenchman had made himself comfortable on a chair opposite to Arthur's, and was now eyeing the doctor curiously, with a smile on his face. He didn't look sick or hurt no matter which way Arthur looked at him, only good. In fact, he looked _very_ good.

Arthur cleared his throat. "My name is Arthur Kirkland," he said, extending his hand. "How may I help you?"

The Frenchman tilted his head slightly and took the offered hand. "Francis Bonnefoy," he said, and the Englishman was then certain the man was new in town. Being the only town doctor he knew practically everybody by face there, and he certainly hadn't seen _that_ face before.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Kirkland," the patient added, and Arthur was sure there was an odd twinkle in his blue eyes.

"That's not what a doctor usually hears," he said, unable to repress a small smile.

"I thought as much." The Frenchman smiled.

Arthur raised his eyebrow at that; the man certainly looked far from ill. "And how could I help you, Mr Bonnefoy?"

"Just call me Francis," the man answered airily, and Arthur felt a tinge of irritation. He really didn't have the whole day to waste on frogs. "Very well, Mr Bon-"

"Francis."

"Francis." _Count to ten, Arthur, and be polite. Breath. Breath, and try not to strangle him_. "Now would you tell me why you have come?"

Francis smirked. "Obviously to see you, my dearest doctor."

Arthur forced a smile on his face. "Obviously. Yet I suppose there is a reason why you wanted to see a doctor?" _Other than bugging him?_

"_Oui_, as it happens, there is." The Frenchman's blasted smile didn't show any signs of disappearing. "You see, I hurt my arm when I was moving my furniture this morning."

"I see," Arthur said, moving to his patient. "Let me see. Which arm and which part of it?"

"Here," the Frenchman – or bloody _Francis_ – said, placing his right hand above his left elbow.

"Please wrap up your sleeve so that I can feel your arm properly."

The Frenchman didn't settle with just one sleeve. With one smooth movement he removed his whole sweater, revealing a torso and slightly tanned, golden skin.

Arthur didn't stare. At all. He was a professional, and that's why he fixed his eyes determinedly on the man's arm. Freaking show-off of a patient. "Simply wrapping up your sleeve would have been perfectly sufficient, Mr Bonnefoy."

"Francis."

Fucking- "_Francis_."

"It easier this way," the Frenchman explained.

"Whatever." Arthur laid his hands on the spot the patient had showed him and massaged it carefully. "How does this feel?"

"Mmm, very good," the French bastard had nerves to hum. "Please, do continue."

Arthur froze immediately. What the fucking hell was _wrong_ with this man? "I am talking about your injury, you sod- erm, Francis!" he uttered icily, save for the accidental slip of tongue.

"No reason to get hot under the collar!" the fucking Frenchman dared laugh heartily. Arthur's eyebrow twitched in suppressed anger – that freaking frog was bloody playing with him! "You asked a question and I gave an honest answer. But the injury..." Francis took one of Arthur's hand and guided it slightly higher on his arm. "The injury is here."

Arthur resisted the reaction to yank his hands free from the warm hold. _Stay cool_, he urged himself. _Slaughtering patients doesn't look good on resumes_. "Some more teamwork would be appreciated," he said coldly instead. "I don't have the whole day."

"Then how about a cup of coffee after you finish work?"

Arthur almost dropped his jaw at such insolence. "No!" The instant answer came without a second thought – who did that bastard think he was? Who did he take Arthur for? For some loose airhead? To prevent any further conversation on the matter, he quickly started lightly massaging the patient's arm. "Does it hurt here?" Alright, maybe he put slightly more pressure than necessary, but this Francis for evidently asking for it.

"Yes!" Francis cried, and the Englishman tried to hide his smirk. Difficult patients or not, _he_ was the doctor and the one in control here. He felt the hurt muscle, saw the Frenchman wincing, and couldn't help feeling somewhat content. Perhaps every doctor had a small hint of sadism in them.

"Well," Arthur said finally, letting go of the Frenchman's arm. "For as much as I felt, your muscle is merely strained."

"You have very skilful fingers, Arthur," Francis said to that, giving a small wince as he tried to move his arm.

Arthur walked to his desk, trying his hardest not to pay attention on the Frenchman. _Ignore him, ignore him, and maybe he will shut up_. Yet for some insensible reason he felt a small blush creeping up on his neck. Inwardly cursing, the Englishman took a piece of paper and scribbled something on it, the offered it to the patient. "Here. Buy this cream and rub it into the hurting muscle in evenings and mornings. It'll help the healing. And don't stress your arm too much."

Francis smiled and accepted the offered piece of paper. "_Merci __beaucoup__._" But before Arthur could withdraw his hand back, the Frenchman grabbed it and pushed the white sleeve up a bit.

"What the fucking-"

"You have very good hands," Francis said, examining the Englishman's wrist. "Very good bone structure." Surprisingly, Arthur didn't spot any annoying mischievousness on his patient's face when he uttered the words. It made him oddly uncomfortable, and he shivered slightly as the blue eyes scanned his arm. Awkward, he yanked his hand back.

"Uh," he said and felt himself blush as the blue eyes turned to examine his face instead. "R-remember to massage your arm carefully several times a day. And leave moving furniture to those who can actually do it properly."

An elegant eyebrow rose on the patient's face. "I will, thank you very much."

"Mh. You can put your sweater back on already, Mr... Francis."

Francis laughed heartily at that, but did – thankfully – what he was told. Arthur stood by his desk, anxious to get rid of this patient. Frankly, he would have preferred even an old, endlessly complaining lady to this vexing man.

But the Frenchman didn't leave after dressing, like he was supposed to. Instead he stood and looked at Arthur somewhat thoughtfully, which the young doctor found exceedingly unnerving.

"Yes?" he finally asked, cautiously.

"I just moved in his town today," the Frenchman said.

"Oh." That much Arthur had already figured. "Welcome, then."

"And I'm arranging a welcoming party this Saturday."

Arthur wasn't sure he liked the way the conversation was heading to. "I see."

The blue eyes twinkled. "It would be a pleasure to see you there, Arthur."

"Oh," Arthur said again, not knowing how to react for some reason. The frog hadn't given a particularly good first impression on him, but it might not be gentlemanly to refuse the invitation. And so, against all odds, Arthur heard himself accepting it. "I.. will be there. I guess. Hm. Thank you."

The elegant face beamed at him. "_Magnifique_! I'll bring you the detailed invitation tomorrow."

"Great," Arthur said, not quite as enthusiastic as the Frenchman seemed to be. He was already regretting that he had agreed. "I... will be waiting."

Thus did Arthur Kirkland become acquainted with a certain sculptor named Francis Bonnefoy. Little did they know at that time that they had appeared in one another's lives to stay.

X


End file.
